


To See Me The Way That I Am

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [122]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Good Will Hunting AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8748280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: A McShep Good Will Hunting AU. Based on comment_fic prompt fills.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, Ronon Dex, "You touched my piece. Nobody touches my piece!" (Adventures of Brisco County Jr.)"

"You touched my piece. _Nobody_ touches my piece!" Ronon bared his teeth and actually growled.  
  
Kanaan snatched his hand back, eyes wide.  
  
"Ronon," Teyla said, tone patient, but she rolled her eyes.  
  
John didn't look up from the book he was flipping through. "Ignore him, Kanaan. His bark is worse than his bite."  
  
Aiden bustled through the front door of Ronon's grandfather's house with a stack of pizza boxes. "What John means is _welcome to the club._ "  
  
Kanaan looked reassured for all of two seconds before Ronon snatched up the knife Kanaan had been reaching for, spun it expertly, and sent it flying across the room past Kanaan's head. Kanaan squeaked and hit the deck.  
  
Teyla rolled her eyes again. "Kanaan," she said, tugging him to his feet. "Ronon would not have hit you. He was only trying to frighten you." When Kanaan was vertical, Teyla spun him around so he could see the wooden board tacked to the far wall, pockmarked with blade indentations. Ronon's knife was perfectly in the center, point first.  
  
"Like I said." John glanced up. "His bark is worse than his bite. He is pretty precious about his knives, though." John reached into his pocket, drew out a knife, and threw it across the room with the same practiced ease as Ronon. It landed in the target, not quite on center, but close enough beside Ronon's throw that his aim was obviously deliberate.  
  
Aiden flipped open the top pizza box and served himself up a slice. "If you want to stay part of the club, you either have to learn to be badass with a knife or Teyla's bantos rods."  
  
"Are you 'badass' with a knife?" Kanaan asked. He was from Teyla's homeland and spoke English cautiously, the same way she did.  
  
"Getting there," Aiden said.  
  
Ronon snorted. "Hardly." But he went and got himself a slice of pizza. John was still flipping through his book.  
  
Someone knocked at the screen door. Teyla went to answer, because even though this was Ronon's grandfather's house, they all called it home.  
  
"Officer Weir," Teyla said.  
  
Elizabeth stood on the doorstep, dark hair mussed in the breeze, wearing a leather jacket to stave off the early March chill. "Is John here?"  
  
Teyla glanced over her shoulder. "John. It is your probation officer."  
  
John lowered his book, stood up. He was always polite to Elizabeth, whatever his general disdain for authority. "Weir. What brings you by?"  
  
Teyla opened the door and stepped aside to allow Elizabeth into the den. She glanced at the target on the far wall.  
  
"I'm going to assume neither of those knives is yours," she said. "You know the conditions of your probation."  
  
John smiled, the expression perfectly charming and perfectly hollow. "Assume away."  
  
"I received a call from your employer at MIT," she said. "Someone was looking for you. Alleging you defaced property? That doesn't sound like you."  
  
John had a tendency to resort to fists before words had had a chance to prevail.  
  
"That doesn't sound like me because it's not me." John's smile vanished; his posture turned closed.  
  
"The complaining member of the faculty wants to talk to you," Elizabeth said. She arched her eyebrow. "I recommend you speak to him. And be polite."  
  
"I can be plenty polite," John said, which was true, but not reassuring.  
  
Elizabeth glanced at Ronon and Aiden, eyed Kanaan warily, smiled at Teyla, and swept out of the house.  
  
"What happened?" Teyla asked as soon as Elizabeth was out of earshot  
  
John grinned; his gaze was opaque. "Nothing. Just messing with those fancy college kids."  
  
Behind them, Ronon roared. "Hey! What did I say about touching my piece?"  
  
Kanaan yelped.  
  
John said, without turning, "Ronon's even more precious about his pizza than about his knives." And he sank back down in his chair and kept on flipping through the book.  
  
Teyla went to intervene in Ronon and Kanaan's pizza dispute and wondered what John had done this time, and if it was something from which he would finally have no escape.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, Rodney McKay, _You gotta nasty disposition / No one really knows the reason why / You gotta bad, bad reputation / Gonna hang down your head and cry / You got bad, bad luck_ "

“ - One of the smartest men on the planet, Rodney!”  
  
He ducked his head, hunched his shoulders. “I know.” Ordinarily, Rodney would be pleased at receiving such a compliment from Dr. Carter, but she wasn’t well pleased with him at the moment.  
  
“You knew there was a question about what you were doing, and you put your life and other people’s lives at risk.”  
  
“But -”  
  
“You shut down three-quarters of the city’s power grid for an entire night.”  
  
Rodney lifted his head. “Well, five-sixths. It’s not an exact science.”  
  
Carter threw her hands up. “Give your ego a rest for one second. You could have died, Rodney. Do you understand that?” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “You’re not infallible. You’re incredibly fragile. And you’re not replaceable.”  
  
Rodney stared at her. “Does that mean you like me?”  
  
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Carter snapped. “Now get out there and apologize to Radek and Caldwell and Landry.”  
  
Radek, Rodney’s lab partner, was probably well into cups of vodka and swearing up a storm in Czech at a nearby bar. Caldwell, the head of campus security, probably had shackles and a cat o’ nine tails waiting for Rodney. And Landry, the university provost? Probably wanted Rodney’s head on a platter. He’d probably even get his pretty med student daughter, Carolyn, to dance around with said platter for good measure.  
  
“Yes ma’am,” Rodney mumbled and ducked out of Carter’s office.  
  
To his vast surprise, Radek was waiting outside, and judging by his grimly amused expression, he’d heard every word Carter had said.  
  
“I - about Project Arcturus -”  
  
Radek nodded. “I understand.”  
  
“So you know I -”  
  
“Me too.” Radek clapped Rodney on the shoulder. “Now come on. Let us go get some drinks and put this day behind us. Evan says he will meet us at The Square.”  
  
Evan was getting his masters in geophysics. He wasn’t quite on Radek and Rodney’s level, but he was bright enough, and a sociable guy, and Rodney could stand his company once in a while.  
  
“Hang on,” Rodney said, “I want to take a stab at that math problem Carter put up.” He dug in his pockets for a piece chalk and rounded the corner.  
  
Radek rolled his eyes. “No. It’ll take forever. I want to drink and talk to pretty boys and girls, Rodney.”  
  
But Rodney dragged Radek toward Carter’s classroom - and saw a massive crowd milling around the blackboard. Heads turned, and Rodney heard the whispers - _Arcturus, black-out, three-fourths of the city_ \- but he kept his chin up.  
  
“Who solved it?” Kusanagi asked.  
  
“Not Rodney,” Branton said.  
  
Ambrose snickered. “Yeah. Anyone who managed to blow up half the lab and knock out three quarters of the city -”  
  
Rodney stared. “Someone solved it?”  
  
Someone had. The solution was neat, elegant. The solver had handwriting Rodney didn’t recognize, though that didn’t mean much. The solver hadn’t left a name or signature or anything.  
  
“Yes, Rodney,” Esposito said. “Or are you blind as well as stupid?”  
  
Rodney was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. But he didn’t protest the insult.  
  
Hewston said, subdued, “Maybe Collins solved it.”  
  
Collins. In the hospital, comatose, recovering from massive burns.  
  
Rodney swallowed hard.  
  
“Let’s go, Radek.”   
  
Radek nodded, and together they left campus. What Rodney wanted, more than anything, was to go home to his crappy dorm room, curl up, and cry. What he was going to do instead was go out and get spectacularly drunk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, Rodney McKay +/ Any, Rodney works hard on expressing humility post-Trinity."

Rodney’s grand master plan to get spectacularly drunk so he could forget, at least for a little while, the disaster that was his attempt at reviving Project Arcturus, was thwarted by several pesky facts:  
  
One, it was a week night, and Rodney had lecture first thing in the morning, early in the morning. (Who the hell scheduled lectures on computational fluid dynamics at seven-thirty in the morning? Perky morning people like Sam Carter, that was who.)  
  
Two, Rodney was a poor student, and alcohol was expensive, especially the kind that would get him amnesiac drunk.  
  
Three, Rodney was supposed to be learning from this horrible experience, was supposed to be giving his ego a rest, and he wouldn’t be learning much either by crying alone in his dorm room or by getting drunk.  
  
So he sat in the cramped booth at Charlie’s Kitchen (he preferred Grendel’s Den, but it was Radek’s turn to choose tonight) with Radek and Evan and did his best to make polite conversation. He wasn’t always right. He could be wrong. And he needed to learn to be patient and listen to other people and not let his ego override his judgment.  
  
When the guy with the glasses and ponytail came over, holding a beer bottle, and attempted to impress Radek (and everyone within hearing distance) with his knowledge of abnormal psychology, Rodney kept his mouth shut about how psychology was a fluffy major, with indistinct standards and lots of room for bullshitting, and he was pretty proud of himself for not laughing and managing to only make a face for a second (which Evan saw and kicked him in the ankle for).  
  
And then the massive, spectacularly muscular guy with the dreadlocks and fascinating geometric tattoo came over and tried to flirt with Evan (of course Evan, with his blue eyes and dimples and also broad shoulders), and Rodney wasn’t sure his ego could take much more punishment.  
  
“Hi.” The guy leaned on the edge of the booth. He was obviously a townie, with rough hands - construction work - and a rough accent. “We have a class together, don’t we?”  
  
Evan, who was not a genius but was more socially savvy than Radek and Rodney combined (Radek had his brow furrowed and looked like he was trying, very hard, to figure out what class he and this guy shared), smiled politely. “Maybe. What class?”  
  
“Literature, I think.”  
  
Ponytail Guy looked Dreadlocks Guy up and down, derision clear in his expression, and said, “Really? Which literature class?”  
  
Dreadlocks Guy barely spared Ponytail Guy a glance, attention fixed on Evan. “Early morning class. Tuesdays and Thursdays, right?”  
  
“Right,” Evan said, amused and blushing a little.  
  
Ponytail Guy snorted. “Oh. Must be a survey course. Tell me, classmate, what do you think of Roland Barthes’s suggestion that the author is dead as soon as a reader reads his piece?”  
  
Dreadlocks Guy raised his eyebrows. “Must be a lot of dead authors out there, then. Better never open a book again.”  
  
Evan actually laughed.  
  
“How droll,” Ponytail Guy said. “I think that Roland Barthes is suggesting that readers lose the _jouissance_ of a piece if they’re tied down to what a writer intended to convey with that piece, because -”  
  
“Because the essence of New Critcism is that readers interpret the piece solely on its own merits, without regard to authorial intention or even historical context, so the text is paramount. Essentials in New Criticism, page 147, I read that too.” The guy who’d interrupted had spiky dark hair, an infuriating but sexy smirk, and bright, dark eyes. He was lean and tall and slid into the conversation without missing a beat. He, too, had rough hands, was dressed like a townie. “But then next week your professor will assign you essential readings on Ferdinand Saussure and Jacques Derrida, and you’ll be arguing that structuralism and post-structuralism are the purest lenses through which to interpret a text, because they draw on the meta-structures of the cultures that generate language.”  
  
Ponytail Guy blinked. “Pardon?”

Spiky Hair Guy kept on smirking. “And then you’ll be back in another bar, plagiarizing some other textbook author’s work in an attempt to impress fine young gentleman and embarrass guys like my friend.”  
  
Rodney sat up straighter. Spiky Hair Guy had an incredible memory, if he could recognize a quote from a textbook and identify the page the quote was from just by hearing a snatch of it from across a crowded bar.  
  
Ponytail Guy narrowed his eyes. “Maybe your friend shouldn’t be talking to -”  
  
“Who, impressive college boys like you? Not that damn impressive,” Spiky Hair Guy said. “Because you’re going to waste four years and almost a hundred grand behind those fancy walls, cramming your head with knowledge you could’ve gotten for a dollar and thirty-two cents in late fines at the library while working in the real world.”  
  
Rodney might have been offended at the notion that he had wasted the past three and a half years in school, except the vicarious thrill of witnessing Spiky Hair Guy take Ponytail Guy down a few pegs was immensely cheering and a weird ego boost. Spiky Hair Guy had gotten all fierce to defend Rodney and his friends.  
  
“John,” Dreadlocks Guy said, low and warning.  
  
“What, Ronon? I’m having a one-sided intellectual debate here.” John’s gaze remained fixed on Ponytail Guy, whose face turned several shades of red before he muttered an excuse and ducked away into the crowd.  
  
“You know most of the guys in this bar are college students,” Ronon said. “I doubt they appreciate being called useless.”  
  
“Well,” John said, sweeping his gaze over Radek and Evan and then resting on Rodney, “I’m guessing that since these gentlemen aren’t protesting my dispatching that guy, they’re the kind of college guys who know that intellect isn’t everything, which makes them not useless.” He smiled at Rodney. “If you want to keep trying your luck with them, be my guest. I better make sure Aiden doesn’t egg Kanaan into alcohol poisoning.” And John walked away.  
  
He went to the other end of the bar with a pretty dark-skinned woman, a dark-haired man, and a black kid who looked barely old enough to drink but was trying to entice the dark-haired man into a drinking game.  
  
Ronon and Evan, as it turned out, did have something in common: they both liked painting, and soon fell into an intense discussion of famous artists. Radek was doodling formulas on his napkin. And Rodney was bored. And tired. And needed to get home. But he couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at John time and time again, wondering what else he read and studied and knew, and what else he could do, besides recite passages from books verbatim on demand.  
  
So, when it was time to depart, Rodney scribbled his phone number on a napkin and headed for the other end of the bar. He was just tired and intoxicated enough to feel bold.  
  
“You know,” Rodney said, stepping up beside John, “after that display back there, I’ve been waiting all night for you to come over and talk to me, but now it’s late, and I have to go to bed so I can get up early tomorrow and continue wasting money and time behind the walls of academia.”  
  
John, who’d lit up at seeing Rodney, winced. “I -”  
  
Rodney shoved the napkin across the bar. “Call me sometime, John.” And then he walked out, smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Multiverse, Any, Cheap Thrills (Sia)."

John wasn’t much for luxury and expensive thrills. No, all his life, everything had been cheap, and he’d learned to make his own thrills. So when he wandered the halls at MIT, pushing his mop bucket, he scanned the posters outside the classrooms and thought of all the new, inventive ways he and the others could set things on fire, could make things explode, could make things sharp and bright and dangerously fun.  
  
And then he saw the problem on the chalkboard outside one of the classrooms. John had read about linear algebra, adjacency matrices, and generating functions for walks from one point to another.   
  
One of his favorite, cheapest thrills was figuring something out. Solving something. That moment when something clicked in his brain, when the proverbial light bulb came on. So he kept pushing his mop, and he mulled the problem over. Poked at it while he was brushing his teeth that night, used a whiteboard marker to scrawl on the bathroom mirror.  
  
Numbers and lines danced on his eyelids when he lay down to sleep that night.  
  
By morning, they’d sorted themselves out into orderly rows, into functions and variables.  
  
John plotted his route through the building carefully, made sure that he didn’t come around to that particular corridor with the chalkboard until all of the classes were finished and the building was empty. Then he propped his mop up against the wall, fished a piece of filched chalk out of the pocket of his coveralls, and wrote. Wrote fast and furious, the solution, the numbers and variables that had unspooled themselves for him in the night.  
  
Two days later, he plotted his route through the building carefully again, this time so he was pushing his mop bucket down the corridor right as a certain linear algebra class was starting. The students were crowded around the blackboard, eyes wide.  
  
“Who did it? Zelenka?” “I wish.” “Kusanagi?” “In her dreams.” “Shut up, Branton. Like it was you.” “I’m not saying it was me, I’m just saying -” “Maybe Ambrose?” “Regretfully, no.” “Esposito, Hewston, was it you?” “Not me, and definitely not him.” “What about Collins?” “Yeah, no.” “McKay. It was definitely McKay.” “McKay could, but he’s been in the lab with Collins for three days straight, working on Arcturus.” “That’s right, Arcturus.”  
  
Yep. That ten cents in late fines on that linear algebra textbook had been so worth it. John, whistling tunelessly to himself, pushed his mop bucket along.  
  
Sure enough, the next Tuesday, another math problem was on the chalkboard. Not a math problem, per se, but a graphing problem, and less of a problem and more of a riddle, but John had read enough to get the gist of it. After work that night, after a round of beers with Teyla, Ronon, Aiden, and Kanaan, John sat up in bed, reading through the textbooks he’d borrowed, and the answer was simple enough.  
  
During the next two days, John was pretty damn antsy, waiting for his chance to solve the problem. He was pleased but unsurprised when he arrived on Thursday and no one had solved the problem. Once again, he propped his mop against the wall and used another filched piece of chalk to draw up the graphs.

He made sure to color in the dots on the trees very boldly so no one would mistake his work. Even though John wasn’t quite sure what the point of homeographically irreducible trees was, he liked the challenge, and he thought that whoever had designed the problem was very smart, and also possibly very boring. Ronon and Aiden made fun of John all the time, for the way he was always flipping through books, but John suspected Teyla knew better, because she never gave him a hard time.   
  
John didn’t spend forever on math, though. There were too many other things in the world to spend all his time on just one thing.  
  
Getting one over on the college kids was always a fun time.  
  
John had just about finished the solution when a pretty blonde woman - the professor - called out, “Hey! That’s other people’s hard work! Don’t disrespect it.”  
  
John dropped the chalk and took off running.  
  
Sticking it to the man and getting away with it was the best cheap thrill of them all.   
  
Lady professor was a pretty good runner, John gave her that, but she’d probably never had to run for her life, and there was no way she knew the building as well as John did, and he lost her easily.  
  
Because sneaking around was also fun times (and John remembered a line from a book, about how criminals liked to return to the scene of the crime), John circled back around. He shrugged off the top half of his coveralls, and he slunk back, partially to rescue his mop bucket, and partially to see what the lady professor thought of his work.  
  
The lady professor wasn’t alone, though. There was a guy with her. He had light brown hair and blue eyes and a very square jaw, and damn, but he was pretty.  
  
“Did you catch him?” he asked.  
  
Lady Professor replied, only slightly out of breath. “No. I’ll speak to someone in building management. I’m sure they can tell me who he is. I cannot believe -”  
  
“That a janitor solved this thing?”  
  
Lady Professor blinked. “What?”  
  
“I’m pretty sure it’s the right solution,” the guy said. “At least, it’s the solution I’d have come up with, if I weren’t so busy with Arcturus.”  
  
John raised his eyebrows. This was the famous McKay, then, who the other students spoke about.  
  
“Damn,” Lady Professor said. “I guess now I really have to find out who did this. In the meantime, I’ll put up a new problem, and we’ll see if one of the students can actually solve it.”  
  
“Maybe he’s also a student,” McKay said. “Some students work in cleaning and maintenance.”  
  
“If he were a student, why did he run?”  
  
“Good point. Nice hustle, by the way.”  
  
“Don’t make me hurt you, McKay.”  
  
“I was just saying -”  
  
“Back to the lab with you.”  
  
McKay threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender and walked away.  
  
John watched Lady Professor erase the problem and his solution - not before taking a Polaroid of it - and start to write another problem. He had half of it solved by the time she was done, and then she walked away, and he grabbed his bucket.  
  
He considered a new thrill, though. McKay was pretty cute, and damn smart.  
  
So when John saw McKay at the same table as the guy Ronon was flirting with a couple of nights later, John had to go over and intervene, and not just to save Ronon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, Rodney McKay, Asshole."
> 
> Sam POV.

The look on Rodney’s face was absolutely comical.  
  
“What do you mean, he doesn’t want to work with us?” Rodney demanded.  
  
“I talked to him, and he said he wasn’t interested.” Sam shrugged.  
  
“What kind of asshole would rather be a janitor than be working on cutting-edge physics and math? Things that could change the universe?” Rodney’s eyes were wide and his hands were flying everywhere, and were he a few decades older, Sam might have been worried about him having a heart attack.  
  
“People have the right to choose what they want to do with their lives,” Sam said, as patiently as possible, but she knew why Rodney was frustrated, because John Sheppard was brilliant. Beneath his insouciant smirk and his messy hair and his perpetual slouch he had uncharted genius, and Sam was itching to get at it, to see how far and how high he could go.  
  
“Are you sure he wasn’t just jerking you around?” Rodney asked.  
  
“Pretty sure,” Sam said. When she’d gone to the building maintenance office to find out who was responsible for cleaning the math and engineering building, the two surly, overweight men had been reluctant to help, and Sam had been forced to smile and flirt a little to get what she wanted.  
  
What she got a was a business card for Elizabeth Weir, with Adult Probation and Parole, because the genius who’d shamed the best and brightest minds in Sam’s math class was a probationer named John Sheppard, who had a brief but storied criminal record. According to Weir, Sheppard had managed to talk himself out of serious charges every time. He was a model probationer in that he had a job, he checked in on time, and he did what he was told, but he was a bit of a loose cannon, a loner. His friends were punks but more or less managed to stay on the right side of the law. He did his own thing, and Weir was just along for the ride.  
  
John Sheppard was the very image of the super-smart kid who was bored and got into trouble, only now he was all grown up and it wasn’t as cute.  
  
When Sam had caught up with him, pushing a mop bucket through the physical sciences building, he’d recognized her, but he hadn’t acted the least bit ashamed of himself.  
  
Instead he’d said, “Come for a rematch?”  
  
Sam had explained, as politely as she could, that she was interested in working with him.  
  
He said he wasn’t interested, thanks. Her puzzles were good for a quick laugh, but he had better things to do.  
  
“Like what?” Sam had asked, skeptical. “Getting drunk and going on joyrides?”  
  
“Ah. Talked to Weir, did you?” Shadows had darkened John’s eyes for a second, but then he was wearing that infuriating smirk, and he said, “Yeah. Like getting drunk and going on joyrides. Later, Dr. Carter.” And he’d moved on.  
  
“Let me talk to him,” Rodney said.  
  
“Not a good idea.” Sam shook her head.  
  
“I can be pretty persuasive,” Rodney insisted.  
  
Sam rolled her eyes. “Standing outside his window with a boom box is not going to impress him.”  
  
Rodney blushed. “I didn’t realize you were going to be my professor, all right? You’re so - young.”  
  
“You were going to say hot.”  
  
“You are hot, but you’re my professor.”  
  
That Sam and Rodney had managed to reach a working truce after Rodney’s terrible initial attempts to woo her was a testament to his persistence and her patience, but Sam didn’t think Rodney’s brand of persistence would go over well with John Sheppard at all. “Why don’t we just give him a few days to think about it, then see if he comes around.”  
  
Rodney sucked in a breath to protest.  
  
Sam fixed him with a look.  
  
He exhaled. “Fine. Give him a few days. What’s his name?”  
  
“John.”  
  
“John what?”

“That would be telling, Rodney.” Sam waved and walked away. And then she put in a call to one of her friends who worked at the local courthouse, asked for more information about John Sheppard. Rodney might have been inept at wooing but successful through persistence. Sam was a physicist, though. She got what she wanted by applying pressure.  
  
“Cassandra, so good to hear from you.” Sam tucked her cell phone against her ear. “Look, can you put a flag on a name for me? John Sheppard. Two P’s and an A, actually. Let me know if you hear anything about him. And if you could get me the essentials on him, that would be great. I really appreciate it.”  
  
“Not a problem,” Cassandra said. Her mother, Janet, had been one of Sam’s best friends in college.  
  
“Thanks. You’re the best.” Sam closed her phone and continued on to her office. John Sheppard had the advantage now, but he wouldn’t for long.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, I'd Really Love To See You Tonight."
> 
> John finally calls Rodney.

Rodney was incredibly galled that Sam didn’t trust him to not scare off the mysterious genius who was solving incredibly complex math problems between rounds of pushing a mop. He couldn’t help but wonder if her mistrust wasn’t in his social skills but in him. After everything that had gone down with Arcturus, did she still not trust him?  
  
He headed back to the dorms, trying to push aside the rising hurt in favor of getting some homework done. He was just settled in at his desk with a stack of linear algebra textbooks when his phone rang.  
  
He scooped it up. “This is McKay.”  
  
“Hey, Rodney, right?”  
  
Rodney blinked. “Who is this?”  
  
“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m John, the dashing and intelligent man who swept you off your feet at the bar the other night but, admittedly, wasn’t intelligent enough to seal the deal with you and your pretty blue eyes.”  
  
Warmth spread in Rodney’s chest. He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, right. The guy with the crazy hair who didn’t ask me for my phone number.”  
  
“That’s right. John Sheppard.”  
  
Rodney smiled. “John Sheppard, huh? What took you so long to call?”  
  
“Listen,” John said, “I’d really love to see you tonight.”  
  
“I’d like to see you too,” Rodney said, because he didn’t want to say _love_ , didn’t want to sound desperate, but John had said _love_ , and -  
  
“Unfortunately, I’m a little tied up right now and probably won’t be able to get free tonight.”  
  
There was noise in the background, voices echoing.  
  
John pulled away from the phone for a moment to say, “ _Hey, Marks! Stacks! Good to see you again!_ ” And then his voice was louder. “So, what do I have to do to get on your calendar?”  
  
“You have to ask nicely,” Rodney said, “and you better have a good reason.”  
  
“Pretty, pretty please, with a cherry on top,” John said, “will you go out with me tomorrow night? Because I promise you humor, intellectual challenge and, if you are so inclined, an orgasm that is out of this world.”  
  
Rodney almost choked on his coffee. “That’s a very good reason.”  
  
“Don’t leave me hanging, Rodney. Date, time, venue.”  
  
“Tomorrow night,” Rodney said, “Grendel’s Den, seven sharp.”  
  
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” John sounded like he was grinning. There was muffled shouting in the background, and John said, “Better go. See you there.”  
  
Rodney hung up the phone and did a happy dance in his chair. Then he drank some more coffee, cracked his knuckles, and buckled down to tackle the linear algebra.  
  
He was halfway through his problem set when his phone rang again. He sighed and scooped it up. “This is McKay.”  
  
“Rodney, get down to my office now.” It was Sam.  
  
“What? What’s wrong?”  
  
“I pulled a few strings, and I got him.” Sam sounded excited.  
  
“Him? Who?”  
  
“The mystery math genius. Get down here.” And Sam hung up.  
  
Rodney stared at his phone. Then he leaped to his feet, yanked on his jacket, toed on his shoes, and took off running. He was halfway to Sam’s office before he realized he’d left his coffee behind. He dodged a gaggle of freshmen who were gaping at a problem on a chalkboard, rounded the corner to Sam’s office, and stopped. Smoothed down his hair and his jacket.  
  
Stepped into the office.  
  
And stared at John Sheppard.  
  
“You,” Rodney said.  
  
John grinned. “Well, if I’d known _you_ were Dr. Carter’s assistant, I might have said yes a whole lot sooner.”  
  
Sam raised her eyebrows. “You two know each other?”  
  
“We have a date tomorrow night,” John said.  
  
Sam blinked.  
  
“Got a problem with that?” John narrowed his eyes at her.  
  
“No, just...you’re way out of Rodney’s league,” Sam said.  
  
“Hey!” Rodney protested.  
  
John looked Rodney up and down and grinned. “No, I think Rodney’s out of mine. So, you want me to do some math tricks?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Multiverse, Any, _Yeah I'm gonna stay out all night, / I've gotta do a little wrong so I know what's right / I've gotta live a lot of life if I'm gonna give good advice / When I'm talking to my grand-babies / How am I ever gonna get to be old and wise / If I ain't ever young and crazy?_ \- (Frankie Ballard)"
> 
> Kanaan POV

Kanaan stood in the foyer of Ronon’s grandfather’s poky little house and watched John, Teyla, Ronon, Aiden, and even Rodney pulling on dark hoodies. They were all wearing dark clothes and dark shoes.  
  
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Kanaan asked.  
  
Teyla handed him a dark hoodie. “We are going to marry, yes?”  
  
Kanaan nodded. He unzipped the hoodie and tugged it on, one sleeve at a time.   
  
“We are going to have children, yes?”  
  
Kanaan nodded.  
  
“Our children will have children, yes?”  
  
“I hope so.” Kanaan zipped up the hoodie slowly.  
  
“Do you want our grandchildren to think we do not understand them when they wish to have fun?” Teyla raised her eyebrows.  
  
“Well…” Kanaan peered past her to where John was helping Rodney zip up his hoodie, crowded into his space, dipping his hands into Rodney’s back pockets and laughing when Rodney squirmed away indignantly. John tugged Rodney’s hood up to shadow his face, then leaned in, cupped his hands around Rodney’s jaw and kissed him.  
  
“You ready?” Ronon asked.  
  
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Rodney asked, and Kanaan thought that for all Rodney was loud and abrasive, perhaps they had much in common.  
  
John pulled back, smiling his charming, sweet, dangerous smile. “Come on, Rodney. Don’t you want to live a little? Think of the grandkids - you want cool stories to tell them, right?”  
  
Kanaan understood why John and Teyla were friends.  
  
“We do look like we’re about to get up to no good,” Aiden said.  
  
John headed for the door. “Roll out.”  
  
Kanaan expected that they would do any number of things - vandalize some billboards (Aiden had many stories about painting mustaches onto supermodels), egg some cars, smash some mailboxes. Kanaan followed the others through the streets, keeping his stride easy and casual, but they definitely looked like they were up to something, all dressed in dark clothes, sticking to the shadows.  
  
They scaled a chain-link fence, shinned up a drainpipe, and crossed several roofs before dropping down into an empty basketball court. Kanaan was nervous. They were trapped here. They were - up ahead, John vanished. Rodney crouched down, then vanished. Aiden vanished. Ronon vanished. Teyla vanished.  
  
Kanaan sucked in a sharp breath, hurried after her - and saw that they had not vanished but jumped down into a window well and climbed into the building through a window. Into a basement.  
  
Once Kanaan was with the rest of the group, they crept along the hallway, doing their best to keep their footfalls silent on the cement floor. Exposed pipes ran overhead. It was eerie. Kanaan stuck close to Teyla, wary of anything jumping out at them. He’d seen more than his fair share of Aiden’s horror movies.  
  
John, at the front of the pack, turned a corner.  
  
Into a chaos. Swirling colored lights. Lasers. Smoke or mist. And bodies. So, so many bodies. Music. How had Kanaan not heard the music? How -?  
  
John shucked off his hoodie, hung it on a peg on the wall. Rodney fumbled to do the same, and then John grabbed Rodney’s hand, plunged into the crowd. Aiden and Ronon followed suit. Kanaan barely managed to shed his hoodie before Teyla, eyes gleaming, pulled him into the crowd.  
  
Contrary to what Aiden and Ronon thought, Kanaan was no coward. He was a warrior as his people demanded, and he knew all the traditional dances of his family, clan, and tribe. Kanaan was not prepared, however, for this. Teyla pressed against him, hips moving in tantalizing sways. She wound her arms around Kanaan’s neck and pulled him close.  
  
“Relax,” she said. “This is how they dance here.”  
  
Kanaan wasn’t sure if it was dancing or having sex with their clothes on. Aiden was dancing with two women, and Ronon was dancing with three.

And John - John was up on some kind of box or table or pedestal, dancing with Rodney while Rodney bobbed to the beat. Rodney looked as hesitant and nervous as Kanaan felt, but John threw his head back and laughed, danced with abandon. John was not a particularly good or graceful dancer, but his sheer unselfconsciousness was impressive.  
  
And then Teyla did something with her hips and all Kanaan could think about was her.  
  
Until someone let loose with a cry Kanaan didn’t understand but knew was an epithet. Rodney cried out - in pain? He had a hand pressed to his face.  
  
John no longer looked happy. He looked furious. He spun around, scanned the crowd. There came that word again, and Kanaan realized what it meant, an insult for two men who danced together. John leaped off the table and landed on a man in the crowd, and fists began to fly. Some people pressed closer to cheer, others tried to get away.  
  
A fight. This was something Kanaan understood. “Come on,” he said to Teyla, and they waded through the crowd to aid John.  
  
Between Kanaan, Teyla, and Ronon - Aiden was dispatched to shepherd Rodney out of the crowd - they helped John handle his detractor and the other man’s friends.  
  
A shrill whistle broke over the chaos, and people ran.   
  
Kanaan was breathless and five blocks away before he realized it was just him and Teyla.  
  
“We split up, for safety’s sake,” she said. “Now come - let us return home.”  
  
So they did, high on adrenaline and the thrill of dancing, of fighting, and running.  
  
The next day, Aiden appeared on the doorstep, holding two black hoodies. “For real,” Aiden said. Welcome to the club.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate: Atlantis, John Sheppard +/ Rodney McKay, "Last of the Wilds" Nightwish."
> 
> Rodney thinks John is the last of the wilds.

John Sheppard was the last of the wilds. Rodney wondered if anyone else saw it. Usually when John was working with Sam and Rodney in one of the labs, the three of them clustered around a chalkboard, chalk and erasers and dust all around, John was narrow-eyed concentration, pretty lips pursed. He was as tense as a lion in a cage, pacing back and forth. But where Sam was bright-eyed enthusiasm and Rodney was energetic determination, John was - stiller. Smaller. Body language closed off. Tense and ready to spring. Ready to run. As soon as Sam came down out of the mathematical clouds and fixed her attention on him, he was loose-limbed and smirking, leaning on this or perching on that (and never, ever sitting straight).   
  
He showed up to the lab after work in worn jeans and soft jumpers, looking like any other airy, cerebral intellectual wandering the halls of MIT. But Rodney glimpsed him in the hallways during the day, wearing his formless coveralls and pushing his mop bucket, and he knew John wasn’t what he seemed, what he was so good at pretending to be.  
  
Rodney hadn’t comprehended how someone as brilliant as John could be as reckless, as thrill-seeking, determined to push his body to the edge as much as he pushed his mind.   
  
(And he pushed his mind, in all directions. He was a voracious reader, and a speed-reader to boot. Rodney had woken up after love-making more than once to find John sprawled in Rodney’s chair at Rodney’s desk, feet still tangled with Rodney’s under the covers while he flipped through one of Rodney’s textbooks, brow furrowed in intense concentration.)  
  
But then John started taking Rodney on his adventures, running the rooftops of the city, dancing in the basement of an abandoned library, drinking and bowling, the batting cages, basketball games after dark in the Lights Out courts. Rodney even stood on the sidelines one time, running the books while Aiden and Ronon slugged their way through a crowd of opponents and brought home enough cash to keep Ronon’s grandfather going for a month.  
  
Rodney hadn’t thought anyone like John Sheppard could exist anymore, the kind of man who was always on the hunt, searching for the next thrill, the next puzzle, the next fix (and John’s fix was always, always Rodney’s skin, in Rodney’s bed or the back of Rodney’s car or down dark alleys after running from the cops). Teyla and Kanaan stepped into fights with zen deliberateness, their warrior grace an extension of their natural stillness and calmness. Aiden was just a kid, eager to prove himself. And Ronon - he was born to fight and run and run and run. Ronon was all energy, all the time, but for him, fights and dances and games were just a pastime. He worked with his hands, and he was proud of his work, would point out places his crew had worked on as they walked around the streets of South Boston looking for their next adventure.  
  
For John, the hunt was how he stayed alive.  
  
The math was a hobby.  
  
Sometimes, when John was pressing Rodney into the mattress, kissing him all over and breathing his name like a prayer, Rodney could believe he was one of the ways John stayed alive.  
  
But sometimes he was afraid that he, too, was just a hobby.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Multiverse, Any, 'A meaningful silence is always better than meaningless words.'"
> 
> One of the conditions of John's probation is therapy. John doesn't like to talk. His therapist is okay with that, for now.

“How’s it going?” Sam was stirring creamer into her coffee.  
  
Daniel eyed her over the rims of his glasses. “Client-patient confidentiality,” he said.  
  
Sam rolled her eyes. “Come on, I’m not asking you to spill his deepest, darkest secrets -” Which was good, because Daniel knew none of John’s - “I just want an update on his progress.”  
  
What Sam knew and what John knew but what Daniel was pretty sure Rodney didn’t know was that John had been about an inch away from having his probation revoked, from being sent to jail after that fist-fight he’d gotten into at that underground dance a few months ago, and only fast-talking on Sam’s part (Daniel’s part) had allowed John Sheppard to keep walking around breathing fresh air.  
  
Daniel had convinced the judge that John was young, under twenty-three, his mind still developing, with the synaptic elasticity previously only acknowledged in young children during their formative years. John still had a chance to change, to become something better. His brilliance had gone unfed and unchallenged his entire life, and if he had a chance to channel his energy appropriately now, he could realize his potential, become a productive member of society.  
  
The judge had been moved when Daniel threw in the clincher, that he had grown up like John Sheppard and someone had taken a chance on him, and he’d turned his life around.  
  
“Should’ve been a lawyer,” Sam had said as they’d left the courtroom, victory in hand.  
  
Daniel might have agreed, but his powers of persuasion had only gone so far. John had messed with every single therapist Sam had sent him to. He’d managed to get Heightmeyer all up in a twist by flirting with her. He’d submitted to Dr. Warner for all of thirty seconds before he started quoting portions of some of Warner’s older, more controversial research articles, and Warner had given him up within half an hour.  
  
And then Sam had come back to Daniel. He’d looked over John’s file. They’d both grown up in foster care. They had things in common. John would trust Daniel.  
  
John didn’t trust Daniel one bit. John came at the appointed time every week and sat in perfect silence, counting the seconds till their fifty minutes were up.  
  
“He hasn’t said anything to me,” Daniel said finally. He and Sam were having coffee at the same place they’d frequented as students, back when they were coming up through the ranks together, she an underestimated mathematician and physicist, him a psychologist whose theories were almost laughed out of every classroom he entered.  
  
“But you know his charm is very deflective.”  
  
“I mean he hasn’t said a single word to me.”  
  
Sam blinked. “Not a word?”  
  
“Not one.”  
  
“But then what do you do for fifty minutes? Just stare at each other?”  
  
Daniel smiled. “A meaningful silence is always better than meaningless words.”  
  
“But - it’s been six weeks! And he hasn’t said a thing?”  
  
Daniel nodded and sipped some of his coffee.  
  
Sam sat back, expression dismayed. “What am I going to tell his PO? Or the judge?”  
  
“I’m making progress,” Daniel said.  
  
“How? If he won’t talk to you -”  
  
“He’s used to everyone giving up on him, and quickly. No one’s ever waited him out. No one’s ever stuck with him. I’m perfectly prepared to wait him out.” Daniel smiled.  
  
Sam fiddled with her swizzle stick. “You think so?”  
  
“I know so,” Daniel said. He hadn’t spoken a word for three months after witnessing his parents’ death. He’d been shuffled to four different foster homes in those first two months. It wasn’t until the Greens that anyone had taken a chance with him. Papa Green would sit next to Daniel on the couch, or on the floor, and read a picture book, or do a puzzle, something he could do on his own or that Daniel could join in with, if he wished.  
  
And Daniel had wished. Hadn’t dared, though, until two weeks had passed and his caseworker hadn’t arrived to take him somewhere new. That John had held out for six weeks said something about how long it would take for him to trust.  
  
“So you’ll keep working with him?” Sam asked.  
  
“I will.”  
  
“He’s so brilliant. I just -”  
  
“I’d work with him even if he wasn’t brilliant,” Daniel said.  
  
Sam raised her eyebrows.  
  
Daniel nudged the little tray closer to her and said, “Sugar?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, _I know only time can heal scars / So I’m ready when you are, when you are_ "
> 
> Teyla POV.

Teyla knew what Rodney was doing. He thought he was being subtle, and maybe compared to the other scientists around him he was subtle, but John picked up on the subtlest cues, half the time without even realizing it.  
  
“We do not celebrate Thanksgiving in our homeland,” Teyla said. “We do have a post-hunt celebration with lots of food, but it is not connected to any historical sharing of food between two tribes.”  
  
“Canadian Thanksgiving isn’t the same as the American one either,” Rodney said. “But a lot of the traditions have been adopted over time - turkey, stuffing, that kind of thing. I don’t get Canadian Thanksgiving off of school, but my sister and her family are kind enough to hold of celebrating till I can be there.”  
  
They were crammed into what had become Their Booth at Grendel’s Den, sipping beers and eating burgers and sharing fries on another Friday night.  
  
“We always just had a bucket of wings or something at my house,” Ronon said. “Grandpa can’t cook. Evan, though - he’s a really great cook.”  
  
Evan accepted the compliment demurely. “My family never celebrated Thanksgiving either, mostly because they shunned it for its imperialistic and racist overtones. I learned to make all the traditional dishes, though. Now that I’m here at school. Radek had never had Thanksgiving, so we had to teach him. Right, Rodney?”  
  
Rodney nodded.  
  
Aiden made a low noise. “Grandma made the best stuffing you’ve ever had. I miss it all year round. And she only ever makes it once a year.”  
  
Ronon grinned. “That’s the nice thing about Evan. He doesn’t discriminate about when to make stuffing.”  
  
Through the entire conversation, Rodney kept shooting John hopeful looks, but John said nothing about his family or Thanksgiving traditions. Teyla knew John had no Thanksgiving traditions, because John had had no family.  
  
“I have a whole week off for Thanksgiving, which is nice,” Rodney said. He lifted his beer bottle to his lips but didn’t actually drink. “What about you, John? You working that week?”  
  
“I have that Thursday and Friday off because there are no classes.” John reached out to the central fries plate and snagged three fries, dipped them into a little dish of malt vinegar that the waitress always knew to bring them. “But there are classes till Wednesday, and messy college kids to keep after.”  
  
Teyla was pretty sure that Rodney had no clue that John was on probation for multiple offenses and that he was in court-ordered therapy (that seemed to be making no difference). Rodney looked disappointed that John wouldn’t be able to go home with him for Thanksgiving.  
  
Finally, Rodney abandoned subtlety. “What are your plans for Thanksgiving? Going to go see your family?”

“My mom died when I was a kid,” John said. He nudged Ronon. “I can have your share of wings with your grandpa, right?”  
  
Ronon nodded. Rodney looked alarmed, cast Evan a look, and Evan said, as sweetly and politely as ever,   
  
“You know you’re welcome to eat with us.”  
  
“Nah, but thanks. Not much fond of the racist overtones of the holiday,” John drawled.  
  
Aiden wadded up a napkin and flung it at him. “Says the white boy.”  
  
John huffed. “You’re not Native American.”  
  
Rodney was a smart man; he read into everything John didn’t say about his family, the utter lack of reference to his father or any possible siblings (biology dictated that John had a father, and Teyla knew he had a little brother who he’d been separated from early on). He was smart enough not to say anything about it, either.  
  
Talk turned to the construction project Ronon, Aiden, and Kanaan were all on the same crew for, and how lessons were going at the martial arts studio where Teyla worked. Evan and Ronon mentioned an art project they were working on. Rodney made brief reference to the project he and Radek were working on.  
  
John never, ever talked about what he was working on with Dr. Carter and Rodney, and when Rodney talked about it, John listened in silence, as if he were an outsider like Teyla and the rest. After a while, Rodney gave up talking about it.  
  
Teyla had known John the longest, first saw him three years ago when he shuffled into the line at the soup kitchen where she still volunteered. He’d had his life’s possessions in a tied-off garbage bag, a white-knuckled grip on his favorite knife, and a wariness Teyla knew from a lifetime of hunting, from cornering desperate animals as she went in for the kill.  
  
Three years later he still watched the world with that wariness, officially had no knives, and kept his life’s possessions in a sturdy military surplus duffel bag, ready to move at a moment’s notice.  
  
Teyla liked to think, though, that John’s grip on his life was no longer white-knuckled, and time had healed some of his scars, and that when he was ready to stand still, he’d stand with Rodney.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: 'Any, Any, “There's something you need to know. Compared to you, most people have the IQ of a carrot.”'
> 
> Daniel and John finally begin to talk.

“There’s something you need to know,” Jackson said.  
  
John blinked. He’d been counting the seconds for twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven and a half, actually. Had Jackson been counting them too? Impeccable timing. Precisely halfway through their session. John settled back in the chair with what he knew was his most infuriating smirk on his face. He’d seen Officer Weir clench her fists at the smirk on his face.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Compared to you, most people have the IQ of a carrot.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“Having a high IQ doesn’t make you smart at everything.”  
  
John huffed. “Is this the part where you tell me I need more life experience, that I’m still young and have a lot to learn about the world?”  
  
“Sounds like you already know that.” Jackson shrugged. “Whether or not you believe it, on the other hand, is another matter.”  
  
John eyed Jackson. “You think you know me because we’re both from Southie? You think you hide your accent, and it’s mostly gone, but not gone enough.”  
  
“And you read my biography on the back of one of my books,” Jackson drawled, amused. He had pretty blue eyes. Not as pretty as Rodney’s, but -  
  
No. John couldn’t afford to get distracted. He understood what this was. Dr. Carter thought if she tamed John, made him nice, made him socially acceptable, she’d get to keep him. She was wrong.  
  
“You read my file,” John shot back. “Let me guess: _John has antisocial personality traits, is oppositional defiant, exhibits symptoms of ADD, and has attachment issues._ ”  
  
Jackson raised his eyebrows. “You want to know what your file says?”   
  
John had never been allowed to see it, though he knew he had the right to. “Surprise me.”  
  
Jackson turned and pulled open one of his cabinet drawers, poked around, came up with a familiar brown Social Services file. He flipped it open, rifled through several documents, and cleared his throat.  
  
“‘Subject is a caucasian male, late teens, presents appropriately groomed and dressed, oriented as to person, place and time. Subject is defensive, presents as overly-positive, but with self-deprecating undertones. Subject exhibits symptoms of post-traumatic stress-disorder consistent with childhood physical abuse, such as hyper-arousal that is mis-diagnosed as attention deficit disorder. Subject exhibits some symptoms of reactive attachment disorder but does not meet the criteria for a full diagnosis of the disorder.’”  
  
John swallowed hard, forced his limbs to relax. “There it is, then. Me in a nutshell. A few words on a page, and you have me all figured out. I’ve heard it all before.”  
  
Jackson offered up the file. “There’s more, if you want to see.”  
  
John searched Jackson’s gaze. There was no mockery, no challenge. A genuine offer. Granted, for seven weeks, Jackson had sat in total silence with John. The guy was persistent, and disgustingly sincere. John plucked the file from Jackson’s hands. So this was it. This was what the social workers had passed around to each other, to his foster parents, so they’d know what they were dealing with, how to handle him.  
  
John read through the diagnosis further. It was damn accurate, but it was all just - words. Those words couldn’t begin to encapsulate all he’d seen, all he’d done, all that had been done to him. He was his own man, now.  
  
He closed the file to hand it back and paused.  
  
The name on the tab was _Jackson, Daniel M._  
  
John glanced up at Jackson, but the man’s expression was calm.  
  
John opened the file again, sure it was a trick, but the name on the front of the psych eval was Jackson’s. The court reports, the school reports - all for Daniel Jackson. The pictures were of a boy who vaguely resembled Jackson. Kid had longer, blonder hair, dorkier glasses. It was easy to see how that kid had grown into the man sitting opposite John.   
  
There was a picture for every year, like a child-size mug-shot. Jackson had been in the system from eight to sixteen. Watching him grow up, solemn-faced, was oddly intimate. John glanced at Jackson again, but the man looked completely unruffled by John’s perusal of his Social Services file. John flipped through the file some more and paused. At the photographs. The bruises and the cuts and the burns.

“Belt?” John asked.  
  
“Garden hose.”  
  
“Cigarettes?”  
  
“Expensive Cuban cigars, actually. Can’t stand the things now.”  
  
John closed the file and handed it back. “You still don’t know me.”  
  
“You don’t know me either,” Jackson pointed out. “But I want to get to know you.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“You didn’t look at me and read my books and think I came from that, did you?”  
  
“No.” John could admit when he was wrong, but his being wrong was a rare occasion.  
  
Jackson smiled. “I’m interested to see where you go.”  
  
“Because I’m so smart?” John snorted.  
  
“Because you’re interesting.”  
  
John studied Jackson for a moment. “A carrot, you say?”  
  
Jackson laughed. “A carrot, yes. That was what my wife always used to compare stupidity to. A carrot.”  
  
John darted a glance at Jackson’s left hand. He wore no ring. “You have a wife?”  
  
Jackson smiled. “Our fifty-five minutes are up. See you next week, John.”  
  
“But - tell me about your wife!”  
  
“If you tell me about Rodney.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: Stargate: Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay,  
> If you can calm the raging sea  
> You can calm the storm in me  
> -"Stars", SKILLET
> 
> Rodney calms the storms in John's head.

Rodney got in late from his flight from Canada, had been half-asleep when he called John to swing by the dorms and hang out, had been almost completely asleep when John appeared at his door. But he’d let John inside and wrapped his arms around John’s neck and given him sleepy kisses, and John had been damn glad to see him. John hadn’t realized how used he was to having Rodney in his life, a phone call away, a push of the mop bucket away, a knock on Sam’s door away, till Rodney was gone and John was left alone with the racing, racing, racing in his head. He stepped into the circle of Rodney’s arms and Rodney’s lips on his slowed the hurricane winds in John’s mind, calmed the raging seas and storms of his imagination.  
  
Rodney had been too sleepy for more than kissing and cuddling on the bed, so John helped Rodney out of his shoes and socks, undressed him slowly and gently, tucked him under the covers, and then stretched out atop the cover beside him.  
  
Rodney was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. In sleep he was lovely, all the worries of the world he carried on his shoulders easing. John reached out, trailed a fingertip down the side of Rodney’s throat, along his collarbone, and to his shoulder, imagined dusting away the thousand cares and concerns that followed Rodney around all day, every day, buzzing and swarming like flies.  
  
John really wasn’t a smart man. Certainly not smarter than Rodney. He just had the singular gift of being able to remember everything he’d ever read and being able to call up what he wanted, when he wanted. Math and physics were like construction and architecture. Know what the pieces are. Make them fit together in a whole. For John, solving math problems was as simple as wielding a hammer. So many people in the math department were impressed, but he wasn’t working any harder than Ronon or Aiden or Kanaan.  
  
John was smart enough to know that Rodney McKay was way out of his league. Sure, Sam would keep John around and have him do math tricks, but once he pissed off Daniel or got into another fist-fight, it would be jail cells and Officer Weir’s disappointed frown and wielding a hammer on a jail work crew. Rodney would be disgusted and move on and find someone nice, and smart, and college-worthy, like Evan or Radek. Even if John didn’t end up going to jail, Rodney was going to graduate, and he was going to move on, and John couldn’t go with him. John was on probation. John was stuck in South Boston. John was going nowhere, except to work, and to the library, and to Ronon’s grandfather’s house to shoot the shit with the others (till Aiden wised up and went to college and Teyla and Kanaan got married and started a family and Ronon ended up as Evan’s kept boy or partner in a fancy home art studio) every day till someone got the better of him in a fight or drinking contest or when he was crossing the street in dark clothes on a cold night with ice on the blacktop.  
  
John took a deep breath and gazed at Rodney. He could say it. Rodney was asleep. Rodney wouldn’t hear. It wouldn’t really count. No one could hold him to it.  
  
He could say it.  
  
He really could.  
  
He couldn’t.  
  
John wrapped an arm around Rodney and closed his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep. He’d be gone before Rodney woke.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, Rodney McKay,  
> My hands tired, my heart aches  
> I'm half a world away here  
> (REM)"
> 
> Rodney isn't sure if John is making the first move or pushing him away.

Rodney wasn’t sure what had happened while he’d been away in Canada for Thanksgiving break, but John was - quieter now. Stiller. Distant. Lost in his own head. On the best of days, John wasn’t a very forthcoming person, but now every time Rodney looked into his eyes, he saw walls. Locked doors. Silence. Shut-out.  
  
Rodney had no idea how to confront John about it, though. Because John still showed up to his appointments with Sam after lecture, armed with a piece of chalk and his deadly smirk and his diamond-sharp, diamond-brilliant mind. When Rodney was helping Sam grade things for the 101 glasses, was stuck in her office after hours, was tutoring little 201 students weeping and wailing over calculus, when he had to miss dates or hangouts with John’s crew or Radek and Evan and Ronon, John would appear, with a cup of hot coffee and a little citrus-free snack to keep Rodney’s blood sugar up.  
  
When Rodney stressed out about his own finals, John didn’t offer to do them for him like he might have a few months ago; John sat behind him on Rodney’s bed and rubbed his neck and shoulders and listened to Rodney talk his way through the mind-bending math and physics problems.  
  
There were two weeks till Christmas, one week till finals, and Rodney still needed to buy gifts for his sister and brother-in-law and niece. He still needed to get gifts for Evan and Radek and Sam, and also for John, and he felt like he was flying apart.  
  
He realized he’d been staring blankly at a worksheet for partial differential equations for he had no idea how long when John reached out, plucked the pencil from Rodney’s fingers, and set it aside.  
  
“You need a study break.”  
  
Rodney rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I probably do.”  
  
“You also need to relax.”  
  
Rodney huffed. “Fat chance of that.”  
  
John leaned in, nosed along Rodney’s jaw to that spot that made his spine melt, traced his fingertips meaningfully over the waistband of Rodney’s jeans. “I can help you relax.”  
  
“John -”  
  
John grinned against Rodney’s skin. “I can blow your mind.”  
  
Rodney groaned at the double entendre, but then John skimmed his fingertips over the front of Rodney’s jeans, and the groan turned into a moan. “I really need to -”  
  
“You’re not getting any studying done anyway. Might as well give yourself an endorphin boost, right? We could work out a reward system,” John offered. He pulled back, gazed into Rodney’s eyes. “For every problem set you complete, you get a reward.”  
  
“I haven’t finished this problem set.”  
  
“Call this a payment in advance,” John said, cupping his hand between Rodney’s legs, and Rodney’s eyes fluttered closed.  
  
John stroked, and Rodney’s breath hitched.  
  
“Okay. You’ve convinced me. Study break.”  
  
John leaned in, smiled against Rodney’s skin once more, and proceeded to thoroughly blow his mind.  
  
Afterward, they lay tangled in Rodney’s sheets, skin warm and pleasantly sticky. Rodney curled on his side and John, the taller of them, spooned up behind him, slung an arm around Rodney’s waist.  
  
“So, partial differential equations?”  
  
“In a minute,” John mumbled sleepily. Orgasms always made him sleepy. Rodney thought it was incredibly hot that John could come just from blowing him.  
  
“How come we never go to your place? My dorm bed is tiny.”  
  
“My place is a hell hole,” John said.  
  
“I still want to see it.”  
  
John huffed. “Trust me, you don’t.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure I’m old enough to know what I want.”  
  
“And I’m pretty sure you haven’t seen enough of the world to know when there are some things you shouldn’t want.”  
  
Rodney rolled over and slid closer to John, gazed into his eyes. “I hold my own when we’re out there, on the streets of Southie. Running on the rooftops. Basketball games and raves.”  
  
John traced a finger down the line of Rodney’s jaw to his lips, his expression unreadable. Opaque. Walls and locked doors. “You’re tougher than a lot of people give you credit for,” he said. “But some things no man was meant to see.”  
  
“You see them,” Rodney pointed out.  
  
John closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, I do.” And with that he slid out of bed, reached for his clothes. “So, partial differential equations. Call me when you’re done. I promised Teyla I’d swing by the dojo.”  
  
He was dressed and out the door before Rodney realized what was what.

Rodney got back to his studying. He didn’t call John when he finished his problem set, or the next, or the next. He saw John in the hallway between lectures the next day, and John flashed him a brief smile before continuing on. In Sam’s office after lectures, John acted like nothing had changed, nothing was wrong between them, but something was. John and Rodney were standing side-by-side in front of a chalkboard, making numbers dance, making reality bend, working to change the universe, and they were half a world apart. The chalk in Rodney’s hand felt like lead, and the space between him and John was cold where it was usually warm, an abyssal divide.  
  
It was Sam who asked the question, about John’s Christmas plans. He demurred, something about hanging out with friends. Sam talked about going to see her brother. Rodney opened his mouth, a dozen times, to ask John to come home with him, but he knew what the answer would be, and he couldn’t bear to hear it, so he said nothing.  
  
He was afraid he was losing John.  
  
Right before Rodney’s first exam of the semester, John caught up to him just outside the doors, pressed a kiss to his mouth and a little wrapped box into his hands, and then dashed away.  
  
Rodney unwrapped the box with shaking hands, and he saw - dog tags. Ronon wore his grandfather’s old Army tags, and Aiden wore his father's old Marine tags, and Teyla and Kanaan and John all wore dog tags of their own making. Their own gang colors, Aiden had joked. The ones in the box were blank. There was a note inside, in Teyla’s careful print.  
  
_Make them what you wish._  
  
Rodney knew Teyla and Kanaan had mutual markings on their dog togs. He took them out of the box and tugged the chain over his head, tucked the tags under his collar, and felt their coolness slowly warm to his skin as he crossed campus.  
  
He wondered if this was John making the first move, because those shiny blank surfaces felt like tiny, blank walls.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "any, any,  
> How can you see into my eyes like open doors?  
> Leading you down into my core where I've become so numb"
> 
> John is pretty sure Daniel doesn't know what the hell he's talking about.

“How did you first know your wife was the one?” John asked.  
  
Jackson blushed. “My courtship with Sha’re was - unconventional. You know how I was a translator for a while? My thing with languages is like your thing with math.”  
  
Unlike the previous shrinks, Jackson didn’t give a damn that John had read his biography or the books he’d written. And Jackson wasn’t obsessed with John’s so-called genius, like John was some kind of walking calculator. John could respect that.  
  
“Yeah. So?”  
  
“So there were these refugees, living in the tenements in Southie,” Jackson said. “I got called in to help out, get them settled in, teach them how to get around. I knew their language, and I’d done my best to study their culture, but books can only teach you so much.”  
  
There it was, another reminder that John needed to get out and live, not shield himself behind a life half-lived, a life gleaned only from books. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  
  
“And what the books didn’t tell me was that because I’d rendered such great assistance, I was worthy of a great gift - the headman’s daughter.”  
  
John blinked. “Wait, they _gave_ her to you?”  
  
Jackson scrubbed a hand over his face. “It was awful. They showed up on the doorstep with food, and I thought, hey, gratitude food, this tradition I get, but after they were done setting the food up in my kitchen, everyone else left, but she stayed, and then she started taking off her clothes, and I realized what was going on, so I went to talk to her father about, you know, not doing that, and I saw the look on his face. If I rejected her, she wouldn’t be worthy of any man. She’d be a pariah. In their own land, they might have killed her for being so dishonored.”  
  
John sat up straighter. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah. It was pretty intense. So I...let her stay. I slept on the couch, she slept in my bed. I got her some clothes, and every time I saw her dad I hugged her and gave him a thumbs up, and he assumed I was happy, but - I mean, people aren’t puppies. I couldn’t just _keep_ her. I think she thought I was broken or something, because I wouldn’t sleep with her.”  
  
“Did you want to?”  
  
“Of course I did. I was, what, twenty-two? And she was beautiful.” Jackson’s gaze went distant with memory.  
  
John scanned his office, looking for a picture of her, but mostly he saw pictures of Jackson with people John didn’t recognize.  
  
“And I think she wanted me to, not because she actually wanted to, but because she was supposed to. When I was at school, she cleaned my apartment and did the laundry and cooked the food, and she was a really, really great roommate. But we were so careful around each other, to maintain our boundaries, to make sure we were strictly roommates and nothing more. I fell in love with her anyway. She was so kind to the people around her, not just to her own people but to anyone who needed help. She’d take them food, or play with lonely kids, or teach the neighborhood ladies her traditional dances.”  
  
John studied Jackson’s expression. Jackson hadn’t answered his question - not yet. He was building up to it. The admission was - no, the admission was easy. Reliving the memory was what was going to be hard.  
  
“But the night I knew she was the one was after I cooked her dinner one time. She mostly made me traditional food, which was fine, and on campus I ate American food, but sometimes at home I wanted something traditional to me, so one night I went all out - baked beans, lobster mac and cheese, cream pie. She’d never had anything like it, and she ate like a teenage boy. Usually she was so delicate, so careful with her portions, but she got her hands on those baked beans and she went crazy.”  
  
Jackson laughed, and John couldn’t help but chuckle as well.  
  
“Once we were all done, waiting for the food to settle before we did the dishes, I asked her what she thought, and she opened her mouth to answer, and this horrific belch came out.”  
  
John blinked.  
  
“We’re talking one of those frat boy richter-scale type belches,” Jackson said. “You know the kind I’m talking about. That wins a belching contest.”  
  
John nodded warily. “Yeah.”

“And she was so embarrassed, but I’d never seen her do anything so - human. I mean, I swear she never went to the bathroom when I was home. And I busted up laughing, because it had never occurred to me that, you know, _women_ could do that.”  
  
Teyla always looked tolerantly amused by Ronon and Aiden’s belching contests.  
  
“She looked downright afraid, like I was going to kick her out of the house or something, but I just kissed her on the cheek and told her, _That’s how you know the meal was a good one_ , and after that, it kind of became our thing.”  
  
“Your _thing?_ ” John echoed.  
  
“Yeah. I made a meal, and if she approved, she belched. No words. Just a burp. And then her innocent smile. It was disgusting, but it was _ours_ , and the next time she did it, I was a goner. She was the one.” Jackson lowered his gaze, and John saw that his hands were shaking. Then he looked up. “That’s what love is, John. It’s not amazingly athletic sex, impeccable physical beauty, dizzying infatuation. It’s the bizarre, the comical, the ugly truth that belongs to just the both of you. It’s the good and the bad. And sometimes it’s a whole lot of bad.”  
  
John said, “You don’t wear a ring.”  
  
“Rings weren’t traditional to marriage in her culture.”  
  
“You have no pictures of her.”  
  
“Not in this office.”  
  
“You talk about her in the past tense.”  
  
“Because she’s dead.”  
  
John almost flinched at Jackson’s flat tone. “Cancer?”  
  
“Kidnapped and murdered during a war between the O’Haras and the Sheppards on the streets of Southie.”  
  
John’s throat closed.  
  
“She didn’t make good leverage, because she was a refugee and the wife of a poor student, and it was easy for the Feds to write her off as collateral. What’s one more dead brown girl, after all?” Jackson leaned in, rested his elbows on his knees.  
  
“That was a long time ago,” John said, because he’d ended up in the system in the aftermath of that war. “You’re still alone. You don’t have anyone new. You haven’t moved on.”  
  
“This isn’t about me, though. It’s about you.” Jackson caught John’s gaze and held it. “You wanted to know how I knew Sha’re was the one because you’re in love with Rodney, and it scares the shit out of you. All you know how to do, deep down inside, where you know how to eat and breathe and run, is get the hell out of Dodge when you start to care about someone like that. And if all you do is run, you will always be alone.”  
  
“Being single is a choice. Marriage isn’t for everyone.” John shrugged, knew he sounded defensive, cleared his throat so he could sound calm.  
  
“It’s not a choice for you, John. It’s a reaction. An addiction. It’s fear and self-protection. It’s an instinct. For a long time, it was the right one. But now it’s the wrong one. If you love Rodney, you have to take a chance, the chance that he could hurt you more than cigarettes or garden hoses ever could.” Jackson’s gaze was flaying John open.  
  
He sat back, tried to keep his posture calm, but he was tense.  
  
“All the books and all the knowledge in the world will never teach you what it’s like to love. _I_ can’t even teach you that. You have to learn it yourself, and the only way to learn is to get out and do it. You can quote poetry or Shakespeare or Lewis, but you will not and never can know what it means to love till you _do it_.”  
  
“Says the man who doesn’t do it anymore.”  
  
“I’ve done it, and I know how to do it again,” Jackson said. “You’ve only ever read about it. Rodney McKay is a handsome, brilliant man. You, too, are beautiful and brilliant. He couldn’t ask for better than you, John Sheppard.”  
  
John bit back a smart comment about how Rodney was destined for greatness and all John was and ever would be was a cheap party trick, throwing chalk formulas at the wall with Carter and her hoping they’d stick. Jackson didn’t know John, and he didn’t know Rodney.

But John knew that choking sensation when he tried to say those words to Rodney, how his chest would seize up and he had to _run run run_ because he didn’t dare let Rodney know the truth, because the truth would make Rodney run. Best to let Rodney think John was a cute trick before he moved on, like they all moved on. Ronon would move on once his grandfather died. Teyla and Kanaan would move on once they had enough money to start a family. Aiden would finally up and join the Marines.  
  
John opened his mouth to protest. Jackson was wrong. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.  
  
Jackson said, “Time’s up.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "any, any, saying I love you for the first time."
> 
> Rodney says it for the first time. John is pretty sure it's also the last time.

Damn, but Jackson was smart. He’d reeled John in by dropping that hint about his wife, and then John had told him about Rodney - how smart he was, how handsome he was, how much fun he was (and maybe John had been forced to revise his opinion about uptight college kids a bit, after Rodney and Evan and even Radek went on a stealth run with them, stealing trays from the cafeteria and going sledding on one of the hills on campus). And just like that, it was conversation. About the archaeology digs Jackson had been on, and the math problems John was working on, and the way they’d grown up.  
  
It always felt like a casual conversation, and then right there at the end, Jackson would hit John right between the eyes with a razor-sharp truth.  
  
“Well, if that’s how you feel about him, it probably means you love him. So you should tell him.”  
  
Jackson’s blue eyes glinted behind his glasses. Before John could offer a rebuttal, Jackson smiled his dangerously understated smile and said, “Time’s up.”  
  
John couldn’t remember ever saying those three little words. Not to his mother (who was more a figment of his imagination than a memory). Certainly not to his father. Maybe to his brother.  
  
Now John was lying in the dark beside Rodney (always Rodney’s bed, in Rodney’s dark room, which for all its cramped sterility was still more homey and comfortable than John’s bare apartment) and gazing at him and trying to work himself up to saying them.  
  
Rodney stirred, opened his eyes, smiled. He nestled closer to John, tucking himself against John’s chest, under his chin. “Hey there.”  
  
“Hey.” John pressed a kiss to his hair. Kisses were always the best answer, the best distraction. The best sensation.  
  
“New semester starts next week. My last semester,” Rodney said.  
  
Here it was. The goodbye. John forced himself to remain calm. “You’ll pass all your classes with flying colors and you know it.”  
  
“I’ve applied to several grad programs,” Rodney said. “Pretty sure I can do physics and engineering at the same time if I design my course schedule just right.”  
  
“You can do anything you want,” John said. Because of that, Rodney wouldn’t want John much longer. Plenty of pretty boys and girls had wanted John for a season here and there growing up, but not for long, because they fast figured out they could have better.  
  
“You should come with me.” Rodney’s tone was light, but terror seized John’s limbs, icy and relentless.  
  
John tried to speak, but no words came out. He knew what he ought to do. Break it off. Say goodbye. Leave. Before Rodney could leave him, because Rodney was definitely leaving. He had a bright future ahead of him. John had fistfights and drinking and Officer Weir.  
  
“Unless you have something keeping you here.”  
  
Officer Weir.  
  
Rodney lifted his head, peered at John, his blue eyes dark and solemn. “You probably have family here, right?”  
  
John sucked in a breath.  
  
“You never talk about your family, but it’s not like you sprang fully-formed from the skull of Zeus, right?” There was a definite note of nervousness in Rodney’s voice. He was going to ask for something John couldn’t give.  
  
John drew back. “I don’t have any family.” He did, technically. Cousins and uncles, aunts and other hangers-on, who’d fallen in the wake of the Sheppard-O’Hara blood feud. But most of them were in prison or jail or the gutter, if not the Harbor.  
  
“Not alive, or -?”  
  
“You don’t want to hear about my family.” John rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, cast about for this clothes.  
  
Rodney sat up beside him. “Yes, I do.”  
  
John shook his head. He found his boxers, tugged them on swiftly.  
  
“Come on, John. I tell you about my family.”  
  
“My family’s not like your family.”  
  
Rodney sighed. “My family’s not as nice and normal as I make them out to be.”  
  
John knew that, knew how to read the silences between Rodney’s comments about his sister and her husband but never about his parents. He’d learned to gauge quickly the relationships other kids had to their parents, to see how long they’d last in a home, in a program, in the system.

“No one’s family is normal.” It was one of the trite truths John’s caseworkers had bandied at him, time and again, when he tried to tell them that there was something _off_ about his current foster family.  
  
Rodney sighed. “John, you have to let me in sometime.”  
  
John managed half a leer. “Thought we already did that a couple of times tonight.”  
  
Irritation crossed Rodney’s face. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Look, John, I don’t really know anything about you. We’ve been at this for five months and all I know is the kind of math you can do, and the games you like to play, and the adventures you like to have. But I don’t understand why you’d rather be a janitor than a scholar, or why you won’t let me see where you live, or even really how you met Teyla and Ronon and Aiden.”  
  
“None of that matters.” John tugged on his jeans, hunted for his shirt and belt.  
  
“It matters to me, because I love you,” Rodney said.  
  
John’s eyes burned, and he had to squeeze them shut, because fuck if he was going to cry over this, when he’d never shed a tear over a hand raised to him. “No, you don’t. Because, as you pointed out, you don’t know me.”  
  
“So let me know you.”  
  
John opened his eyes and cast Rodney a scathing look in the dimness of his tiny, cramped dorm room, which had never seemed so small before. “What’s the point? You’re leaving at the end of the semester anyway.”  
  
“You could come with me.”  
  
John shook his head. “I can’t.”  
  
Rodney sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, posture defensive. “You mean you don’t want to.”  
  
“I mean I’m on probation for another seven months,” John said.  
  
Rodney blinked, and some of the tension drained out of his shoulders. “You - what?”  
  
“I’m a janitor because I’m required to have a job as one of my probation conditions, and my PO has an in with the campus super.” John squirmed into his shirt, canted his hips to thread his belt through its loops. “Guys like me who have a record, who barely finished high school, don’t get nice-paying jobs.”  
  
“But you and Ronon seem so -”  
  
“Proud of what we do? It’s either be proud or go down on a gun at the end of the day.”  
  
Rodney flinched. “John. Surely your parents -”  
  
“My mother died before I was in kindergarten. And my dad killed a whole bunch of people when I was ten. So it was foster care for me.” John didn’t look at Rodney, instead focused on hunting for his shoes. “Bit of a rough go. Sins of the father and all that.”  
  
Rodney furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”  
  
John found one shoe and one sock. “You don’t want to know what I mean.”  
  
“Yes, I do.” Rodney crawled closer, gazed earnestly at John.  
  
“You really want to know about the time my foster father got me so bad with his belt I couldn’t wear a shirt for a week?”  
  
Rodney’s expression went blank, unreadable.  
  
“Or how my one foster mother was trying to write her name in my skin with her old cigarettes?” John gazed right into Rodney’s eyes. “You really think you love me, love all this?”  
  
Rodney closed his mouth, swallowed hard.  
  
John smiled mirthlessly. “Thought not.” He found his other shoe, wrote the other sock off, and heaved himself to his feet, headed for the door.  
  
He pretended he didn’t hear Rodney call his name as he headed down the hall. There was a first time for everything.  
  
And there was a last.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, any, Sometimes it’s too late to tell the truth."
> 
> Ronon finds out about the break-up and has a serious chat with John.

Ronon didn’t know John and Rodney had broken up till he went to meet Evan and Radek at Grendel’s Den and Rodney was there as well. Without John. Rodney was pale and drawn and looked miserable. If he was so sick, he probably ought to have stayed home. Or possibly he was drunk? He had a couple of empty bottles in front of him. Whatever he’d been doing before Ronon got there, he’d gotten started early.  
  
Evan was patting his back and Radek looked torn between joining in or fleeing.  
  
“What’s up?” Ronon asked, sliding into the booth.  
  
Evan cast him a warning look he couldn’t quite read.  
  
Rodney said, “I’m going to Stanford for grad school.”  
  
“You got in? Congrats,” Ronon said, still confused by the looks Radek was shooting his direction. “Want me to buy us a round? To celebrate.”  
  
Finally Evan said, “John and Rodney broke up, and Rodney’s really upset.”  
  
Immediately Ronon’s hackles rose. “You dumped John?” His mind raced. Where was John? Where would he go? What would he do? Usually go get drunk and let men pick him up in the seedier gay bars down in Southie -  
  
“He dumped me,” Rodney muttered into his third bottle of beer.  
  
Ronon blinked. “He - what?”  
  
“You sound surprised.” Evan slewed him a look.  
  
Ronon flopped back against the back of the booth, shrugged. “John’s never dated anyone as long as Rodney before. I mean, he never really dated at all. Was a fucktoy for a lot of people, and when they got tired of him, well, he found someone new. What did you say to him?”  
  
“What makes you assume it’s Rodney’s fault?” Radek demanded.  
  
Rodney hunched his shoulders miserably. “I told him I loved him.”  
  
Oh. _Oh._ “Damn.” Ronon sighed.  
  
“Was that a bad thing?” Rodney asked. “I mean obviously it was a bad thing, because he walked out on me and now he won’t answer my calls and Sam said he didn’t come by her office after lectures like he was supposed to.”  
  
“Look, John’s not like the rest of us,” Ronon began, because how much could he tell Rodney? He had no idea how much John had told him. John hadn’t told Ronon or Teyla or Aiden anything either, but they’d figured it out, knew the signs. Aiden had done his own stint in foster care as a kid, before his grandparents rescued him.  
  
“Was he lying?” Rodney asked. “About the belts and the cigarettes?”  
  
Radek looked confused. Realization dawned on Evan’s face, and he looked horrified and saddened.  
  
Ronon took a deep breath. He was walking a very fine line. “He’s never actually said, but - no. I don’t think so.”  
  
Rodney scrubbed a hand over his face - he was trying not to cry, Ronon realized - and took another gulp of beer. “I guess this time the fucktoy was me, so -” His expression crumpled, and Evan huddled closer, put an arm around him and rubbed his shoulder.  
  
“I better go,” Ronon said.  
  
Evan nodded.  
  
Radek flagged down the waitress and asked for some vodka.  
  
John wasn’t at Teyla’s, or at Aiden’s, or at Kanaan’s, wasn’t crashing on Grandpa’s couch. Ronon headed for John’s place and seriously doubted he’d see John there, but he had to check. On the way, he spotted Jinto and Wex kicking a can in the street for a game of soccer. Ronon gave both of them a couple of dollars and asked them to ask their friends if any of them had seen John in the last little bit, keep an eye out for him.  
  
They nodded and abandoned their can, dashed off in different directions.  
  
As predicted, John’s place was empty too, no lights, no life. Ronon even jimmied open the bedroom window in a blatant violation of his own probation terms, but the house was definitely empty. Teyla, Aiden, and Kanaan were all concerned, but none of them knew John as well as Ronon did.  
  
In the next few days, Ronon learned he hadn’t known John as well as he thought he did. The kids reported that John had been spotted hanging around Bunker Hill Community College, but that was all they knew. He’d been talking to some older guy there.  
  
Dammit, but John was letting himself get picked up again.  
  
Ronon checked in with Radek, but he reported he hadn’t seen John at all, not even doing his usual work cleaning the building where Radek, Rodney, and Carter had lectures. When Ronon went by the maintenance office, they said John had been transferred to an entirely different building and a different shift so he was working nights.

John was running as far as he could without leaving the boundaries of his probation.  
  
Ronon stopped by Rodney’s dorm room to report his findings to Evan and Radek, who’d taken to being Rodney’s emotional bodyguards, following him around campus between classes, eating meals with him, watching movies with him, making sure he wasn’t alone for too long.  
  
They were sitting around poking at a math problem that was beyond Ronon (how was it math? It had barely any numbers) when the phone rang.  
  
Rodney reached out and answered it. “Hello?” Then he frowned. “Hello, is anyone there?” He rolled his eyes. “Look, you creep, breathing into the phone like that and saying nothing is just disturbing. Lose this number.” And he slammed the receiver down.  
  
Evan left Rodney and Radek to their arguing, followed Ronon out into the hallway.  
  
“Well?”  
  
“John’s working nights in another building now.”  
  
Evan sighed. “I get that John’s your friend, but Rodney’s my friend, and he’s really hurting.”  
  
“That was John on the phone.”  
  
“What?” Evan looked startled. “How do you know?”  
  
“I know John.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And he’s trying to say it back.”  
  
“What back?”  
  
“The truth, that he loves Rodney.”  
  
Evan snorted. “You think he loves Rodney?”  
  
“Why the hell else would he do this, avoid me and Teyla and the rest of the gang? He’s never done this before, not with anyone else who’s used him and left him.”  
  
“Rodney didn’t _use_ John, and it was John who left Rodney.”  
  
“I know that. And John knows that.” Ronon scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look, John’s one of my best friends, and he’s really fucked up, I get that. But he’s what he is, and Rodney’s what he is, and Rodney’s going to Stanford in a few months, so John’s - gone. Now.”  
  
Evan stepped closer to Ronon, leaned up and kissed him. “I’m not angry at you, I promise. I just hate seeing Rodney this way.”  
  
“It’d be nice if I saw John at all.” Ronon wrapped his arms around Evan and held him tightly for a moment. “I’ll keep hunting. You stay here with Rodney. Love you.”  
  
“Love you, too.” Evan stepped back into Rodney’s dorm room, and Ronon took off across town.  
  
To Bunker Hill Community College. Caught John coming out of the faculty offices in the social sciences building.  
  
“Evan send you? Or Teyla?” John jammed his hands into his pockets and didn’t slow. He was headed for the bus stop.  
  
Ronon fell into step beside him. “I came on my own, because you’re my friend and I’m worried about you.”  
  
“Nothing to be worried about. Still working. Still following the conditions of my probation. Done in seven months, right on schedule.” John stared straight ahead, all appearances perfectly calm and casual as he strolled along.  
  
There was no point in trying to argue with John when he got like this. Anyone who tried got a fist to the face for their efforts. So Ronon wasn’t going to argue with him. “You know what the best part of my day is?”  
  
John glanced at him, startled. “What?”  
  
“It’s when I walk up to your door in the morning, to give you a ride to work, and I knock on the door, and I wait for an answer, and you always take so damn long, so I can imagine you’re not going to answer - because you’re gone. Because you got the hell out of this dump and went on to live your life, doing something crazy and brilliant and wild, raves and midnight basketball games and math all rolled into one.”  
  
John rolled his eyes. “Not this bullshit again. _You owe it to yourself, John, because you’re brilliant._ “  
  
Ronon shoved him on the shoulder. “You don’t owe it to yourself, you owe it to me. And you owe it to Teyla and Aiden.”

John stopped short. “What?”  
  
Ronon turned to face him. “You’ve been handed a winning lottery ticket, and you’re too damn chicken to cash it in.”  
  
“Ronon -”  
  
“I would do anything to have what you have. So would any of the rest of us. It’d be an insult to watch if you’re still here in twenty years, pushing the same damn mop while I’m swinging the same damn hammer and Teyla’s kicking the shit out of guys who think she’ll put out if they take her classes. Staying around here is a damn waste of your time.”  
  
John said, “You’re my family.”  
  
Ronon’s voice caught in his throat. He’d never said anything like that before, not even close. “And we’ll always be here when you come back to visit, to tell us how it’s been out there. But don’t stay here. Not when you could be out there.”  
  
John huffed. “Out where?”  
  
“Out among the stars, Johnny-boy. You can change the world.”  
  
John looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. Started walking again. Ronon fell into stop with him. John nudged Ronon’s shoulder with his.  
  
“The stars? Really? You’ve been hanging around Evan too much, all that artist poetry shit.”  
  
“If you tell him what I said, I’ll kill you.”  
  
And John - John laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue borrowed heavily from Good Will Hunting.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate: Atlantis, John Sheppard,  
> You know the situation can't be right  
> And all you ever do is fight  
> But there's a reason that the road is long  
> It take some time to make your courage strong  
> (NEEDTOBREATHE, HARD LOVE)"
> 
> Daniel tells John a hard truth: that he deserves to be loved.

“Sam says you’ve stopped coming by her office.” Daniel was sipping his coffee from a chipped mug that read _archaeologists do it anthropologically_ (it had belonged to his father) and watching John calmly.  
  
“Sam says?”  
  
“She and I are old friends. You think she picked me at random, at this lame little community college, after you chased off the best and brightest minds in Boston?”  
  
John shrugged, eyed the clock on the wall above Daniel’s head. He put it there because a lot of patients liked to know what time it was. Made them feel in control of something, during a session. Having that awareness was reassuring. John was the first patient Daniel had had in a long time, but Daniel could still feel when time was up, unerringly.  
  
“I figured she just had a list of court-approved shrinks.” John was avoiding Daniel’s gaze. He’d missed a session, and Daniel had been worried, but then he’d shown up the next day to apologize, and he’d looked so pale and tired that Daniel believed he’d suffered from a nasty twenty-four-hour bug.  
  
Until Sam told him he’d stopped working with her. Something else must have happened.  
  
“We were friends in college,” Daniel said. “She got drunk with me after Sha’re’s funeral.”  
  
John huffed in disbelief. “Dr. Carter, drunk?”  
  
“Her dad was a general in the Air Force. Soldiers can drink like you wouldn’t believe, and apparently they pass it on to their kids.”  
  
“Should you be telling me this about her?” John raised his eyebrows.  
  
“She’s not just a professor. So why’d you quit?”  
  
“My working with her isn’t actually a condition of my probation,” John said. “Weir just thought it would be nice. Something to keep me from being too bored.”  
  
“But working with Sam will shorten up your probation.” Daniel studied John. Even though his posture was casual, there was tension in his shoulders and the way he drummed his fingers on his thigh.  
  
“Apparently Officer Weir didn’t realize how easily I get bored, even with fancy math.” John shrugged one shoulder.  
  
“But you’re still coming to see me because of your probation conditions?”  
  
John nodded.  
  
So John was being reticent. Fine. New tack. “How’s Rodney?”  
  
“We broke up.”  
  
Again with the deliberate casualness, but Daniel saw the flicker of shadows in John’s gaze as he said it.  
  
“I didn’t realize that. What happened?”  
  
Another one-shouldered shrug. “You know. Attachment issues.”  
  
Daniel did know. “That horrible feeling you get, like someone’s put a one-ton weight on your chest so it hurts to breathe, every time you think about that other person?”  
  
Surprised flared in John’s eyes briefly, but he said nothing, remained still.  
  
“Yeah, I know it. How your head goes fuzzy and your entire body seizes up because you think you might be in love with them?” Daniel nodded. He could remember the sensation all too well. He could remember the first time Papa Green had told Daniel he loved him. The sheer terror. “What’s even worse is that moment when they say they love you, right? Because you know you’ve got them. They’re hooked. And you’re supposed to say it back, because they’ve got you hooked too, but if you don’t say it, maybe you can wriggle off of the hook, right? Before it tears your heart out.”  
  
John said, “Rodney thought my scars were from my being wild. Running around, jumping off of things, climbing things, getting into fights. I let him think it. And then he told me he loved me, so I told him the truth about me, and then I asked if he really did love me, now that he knew the real me, and he said - nothing.” He tore his gaze from Daniel’s, fixed it on the clock.  
  
“Probably because he didn’t know what to say,” Daniel said. “Most people don’t know what to say, when you tell them. Because people are good, at heart. Want to believe the best of other people. Don’t want to believe them capable of evil.”  
  
“You think he really loved me? And not just -” John gestured at himself vaguely.  
  
“What, your pretty face? Yes, John, I think he really loved you. Probably still does.”  
  
John scratched the back of his neck. “Did you tell your wife about what happened to you?”  
  
“She figured it out on her own. Scars. And when she met my family, they’re black, so.”

“Family?”  
  
“One of my sets of foster parents. Social services didn’t let me stay there long, because they were black, but I found them again, after I got emancipated. They were good to me.”  
  
“How long were you with them?”  
  
Long enough to make a difference. “Four months.” Daniel leaned in. “John, you deserve to be loved.”  
  
“I know.” John was staring at the clock again.  
  
“Look at me, John.”  
  
John met Daniel’s gaze.  
  
“You deserve to be loved.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“No, you don’t. All you ever do is fight this. In your head you know it’s not right, but you need to know it in your heart, in your body, in your soul. You deserve to be loved.” Daniel leaned in, holding John’s gaze.  
  
John was on his feet and across the office like a shot. “I said _I know._ ”  
  
“You deserve to be loved.”  
  
“All right.” John closed his eyes and swallowed hard.  
  
Daniel rose up, closed the distance between them. “You deserve to be loved.”  
  
John’s eyes flew open. He shoved Daniel back with shocking force, but Daniel caught himself, held his ground.  
  
“Don’t fuck with me, Jackson. Not you.”  
  
“You deserve to be loved,” Daniel said gently. “You deserve to be loved.”  
  
John crumpled to the ground, shaking with silent sobs. Daniel knelt beside him and pulled him close. John buried his face in Daniel’s shoulder, tiny, agonized sounds wrenching out of him. He clung to Daniel so hard Daniel would have scratches and bruises later, but Daniel didn’t care, just held him and murmured softly.  
  
John actually cried himself to sleep, soaking Daniel’s shirt in the process. Daniel managed to wrangle him onto the couch, and he tucked an afghan around John’s shoulders, and he set about marking some pop quizzes.  
  
John woke an hour and a half later, looked startled by the blanket and where he was.  
  
“There’s some tissue on the shelf above your head,” Daniel said.  
  
John blinked at him. “Time’s up, right?”  
  
“It was up a while ago, but you’re my only patient, so I figured no one would complain if your session ran over some.”  
  
John sat up, scrubbed at his face with a tissue, blew his nose. “So, that was embarrassing.”  
  
“You seemed like you needed it.”  
  
“I just - is it ever going to end? That horrible feeling every time someone even says the word ‘love’ somewhere near me?” John only stumbled over the word a little.  
  
Daniel was fiercely proud of him. “Healing is a long road, takes time, but you’ve walked longer, dealt with tougher. But the end is in sight. You’re strong, John Sheppard, and smart. You’ve got this.”  
  
“Thanks.” John pushed himself to his feet, cast about for his jacket, which was still on the chair he’d been using during their session. “Same time next week?”  
  
Daniel nodded. “Same time next week.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, Any,  
> You knew there'd come a day  
> When we would have to say goodbye"
> 
> The day has come to say goodbye to John.

Elizabeth was sitting in her office, bolting down a bowl of clam chowder, when there was a knock at her door. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and swallowed, lifted her head.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
It was probably her after-lunch appointment, being early. They were working on his punctuality skills.  
  
The door opened. The man who stepped into the room was tall, slender, handsome, with neat brown hair, blue eyes, glasses, and a tweed jacket that gave him an air of an absent-minded professor. He didn’t look like the photos of any of the new clients she’d been assigned this week.  
  
“Officer Weir?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I’m Daniel Jackson,” he said. “John Sheppard’s therapist.” He held out a brown manila envelope. “I’ve discharged John from therapy, completion successful, so I brought you my final report.”  
  
Elizabeth rose up, smoothed down her blouse with one hand, accepted the envelope with the other. “Thank you, Dr. Jackson. You didn’t have to hand-deliver this.”  
  
He shrugged. “I just thought I’d let you know that John did really well, tackled tough issues. He’s always going to be a bit of a rebel, but he’s learned how to channel his energy without being self-destructive.”  
  
“That’s good to hear. John’s an exceptionally bright young man. It was a shame, seeing all that potential go to waste,” Elizabeth said.  
  
Jackson pushed his glasses up his nose. “He’s a good man all around, despite all he’s been through. I admit, I was also interested to meet someone else who’s been invested in his future. He only has a few more months on probation, yes?”  
  
“He’d be done now if he’d stuck it out with Dr. Carter till the end of the semester.”  
  
Jackson looked sad for a moment. “I suppose. Speaking of Sam, I’m supposed to meet her for her big post-graduation lunch, so I’d better go. It was a pleasure meeting you, Officer Weir. If you ever have other clients like John, I’d be glad to help.” He shook Elizabeth’s hand and pulled open the door.  
  
Dr. Carter stood there. Her hair was ruffled and she was flushed, like she’d been running.  
  
“Elizabeth, have you seen John recently?”  
  
“I saw him at his most recent scheduled check-in two days ago,” Elizabeth said, alarm rising in her blood. “Why?”  
  
“Daniel!” Carter noticed Jackson. “Have you seen John?”  
  
“Saw him yesterday for our last session. Why?”  
  
Carter held out a piece of paper. It was covered in arcane mathematical symbols and formulas. Written beneath it were the words, _Getting out and doing it._  
  
“I don’t understand,” Elizabeth said.  
  
“The project we’ve been working on,” Carter said. “This is the final proof. This is groundbreaking. It’s world-changing. The things we could do with the capabilities this formula gives us - interstellar travel could be reality.”  
  
Jackson raised his eyebrows. “So John finished it? Your project?”  
  
“Either he knew the answer all along and was just messing with me and Rodney or - or while he was on his own he figured it out. I need to talk to him. He’ll be on the short list for the Fields Medal. He -”  
  
Elizabeth had never seen Carter so frazzled before. She reached for her rolodex, flipped through it for John’s number.  
  
Carter shook her head. “He didn’t answer - I already tried. I made Rodney call John’s friend Ronon. No one’s seen him or heard from him. He left this pinned to the blackboard where we used to do our work.”  
  
Jackson studied the formulas for a long moment. “Would this be grounds to close John’s probation early, Officer Weir?”  
  
“I think it would be,” Carter said. “My contact at the Pentagon wants to meet John personally. This is huge.”  
  
“Sure,” Elizabeth said. “I’d just need to fill out the paperwork.”  
  
“You might want to get on that paperwork,” Jackson said.  
  
“Why?” Elizabeth asked.  
  
“Because John’s on his way to California.”  
  
Carter’s mouth fell open. “What?”  
  
“Sam,” Jackson said gently. “You always knew this day would come. John Sheppard was never going to be your protege, wasn’t going to dog your heels and help you with whatever project you came up with next. He wasn’t a wind-up toy who did math tricks. He was good at it, yes, but he never loved it.”  
  
“I never treated him like a wind-up toy,” Carter began.  
  
“I know. But Rodney’s going to Stanford for grad school, remember?”  
  
“Who’s Rodney?” Elizabeth asked.  
  
Jackson said, “Who John loves.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard +/ Rodney McKay, John picks up a stranded motorist on his way to Stanford University."
> 
> John goes on a life-changing roadtrip and listens to too much Elliott Smith.

John knew he was taking a huge risk, busting out of town without talking to Weir first, but he’d talked to Ronon, who said he’d been at graduation with Evan. That meant Radek and Rodney had graduated too. Ronon told him that Rodney had packed the night before, was hitting the road for Stanford first thing after graduation.  
  
And John knew what he had to do.  
  
Ronon let slip that Rodney had gotten his dog tags engraved, one with his name and vital stats on it, like an actual military dog tag, and the other with a formula. It took John mere seconds to solve the formula when Ronon showed it to him. It came out to the date John and Rodney had first met.  
  
_The only way to learn is to get out and do it,_ Jackson had said.  
  
So this was it. This was John getting out and doing it. He’d cancelled his lease with the landlord and used the cash from rent to buy a beater of a car. He’d finished that lame project of Carter’s and sent her the final proof. No, he hadn’t stuck it out till the end of the semester. Yes, he’d put earnest effort into the project. He’d already been discharged from therapy.  
  
It was a gamble, doing all that and leaving town and hoping Weir would close his case instead of filing an order to show cause and violating his probation.  
  
Jackson was right. John deserved to be loved. He had to make things right with Rodney. So he packed all his worldly possessions into the back of the car (clothes, guitar), found an old map, plotted a course to Palo Alto, California, and hit the road.  
  
_Stanford, here I come._  
  
Driving between cities and towns meant John constantly had to change the radio station. Eventually he gave up and reached blindly into the glove box, rooted around. He’d bought the car as-is from Stackhouse, who’d made no promises about the thing other than it worked and would get him to California.  
  
No word about the previous owner, or said owner’s taste in music. A few tapes in the glove box, though.  
  
John grabbed one and shoved it into the tape deck.  
  
Melancholy guitar strains filled the car.  
  
Elliott Smith. The guy was depressing as hell.

But the lyrics lodged behind John’s breastbone and stuck, twisting, clawing him open till he felt like his heart was beating for the entire world to see.  
  
_Drink up, baby, stay up all night  
With the things you could do, you won't but you might  
The potential you'll be that you'll never see  
The promises you'll only make._  
  
John would see his potential. And he’d keep the promises he made. He’d make so many promises, for Rodney.  
  
_Drink up with me now and forget all about  
The pressure of days, do what I say  
And I'll make you okay and drive them away  
The images stuck in your head_  
  
There would be no pressure. Rodney would be in school, John could get a job anywhere, and he’d be there for Rodney, day in and day out. Take care of him. Make sure he was happy. Rodney made him okay, made the noise in his head quiet down, made the images and memories get unstuck and go away.  
  
John was sure he could send a human halfway across the galaxy.  
  
He wasn’t sure he could convince Rodney to give him another chance, but hell if he wasn’t going to try.  
  
_People you've been before that you  
Don't want around anymore  
That push and shove and won't bend to your will  
I'll keep them still_  
  
John wasn’t the same person he’d been for so long, the swaggering kid who’d loved his mother and idolized his father and defended his father even after the old man was put away, had been willing to go down swinging to defend his father before he really understood who his father was. The kid who’d understood the truth of Patrick Sheppard hadn’t learned to play dead. He was no monster, like his father, but he was no coward.  
  
There was no cowardice in caring, no cowardice in vulnerability. There was having the courage to take a huge risk and face the potential of great pain - or great reward.  
  
_Drink up, baby, look at the stars_  
_I'll kiss you again, between the bars_  
_Where I'm seeing you there, with your hands in the air_  
_Waiting to finally be caught_  
  
John desperately hoped Rodney was waiting to be caught. He couldn’t refused to tell Ronon where he was going, what he was doing. Evan would have held Rodney’s plans in confidence had Rodney asked, because Evan was a good guy like that.

John wondered what he would do, when he finally found Rodney.  
  
_Drink up one more time and I'll make you mine_  
_Keep you apart, deep in my heart_  
_separate from the rest, where I like you the best_  
_And keep the things you forgot_  
  
Ronon, Teyla, and Aiden were his family. Jackson, Kanaan, Weir, and even Carter were his friends.  
  
But Rodney - Rodney was his heart.  
  
It was a forty-five hour drive to Palo Alto if John didn’t stop, but he had to stop. He drove ten hours a day for four days, pulled off on the side of the road to sleep when he finally had to give into exhaustion.  
  
He had fevered dreams of Rodney, graduated already and on the arm of some Hollywood starlet, his face on hundred dollar bills. He dreamed of playing a high-stakes game of poker, and all he had to bet with was his car, and he was in trouble, because all the cards added up to zero, and it would take too long if he had to walk all the way, he’d lose Rodney forever, because Rodney would find someone new. He dreamed of meeting Daniel Jackson in the park, a Daniel Jackson who was homeless and insane and read the lines on John’s hand, said John was strong, hardly ever wrong, but Rodney would rather see him gone than see him the way that he was.  
  
He dreamed he had Rodney, but his embrace was poison, and when Rodney stepped in to kiss him, he died in John’s arms.  
  
John was cruising along I-80, still listening to Elliott Smith (he’d really have to sit down and learn these songs on his guitar one day) and thinking he was in love with the world through the eyes of a boy who was there the morning after when he crossed the border into California.  
  
Rodney would always be there the morning after, if John just let him. He was sure.  
  
He saw the smoke before he saw the car. He didn’t even think. Pulled over and hopped out and went charging toward the burning vehicle and saw -  
  
Rodney. Standing there, bags and boxes piled around his feet, staring numbly at the flaming wreck of his car.  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
Rodney turned, irritation crossing his face. “For the last time, the fire department and highway patrol are on their - John?”  
  
John came up short. “What happened to your car?”  
  
“It’s on fire, obviously.” That was the tone Rodney used on people who were stupid in his no-stupid zone.  
  
John swallowed hard. “What went wrong?”  
  
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing here, watching it burn, now would I?” Rodney snapped. Then he took a deep breath. “John, what are you doing here?”  
  
“I came to see you.”  
  
“But - you’re on probation.”  
  
“My PO closed my case. I finished therapy and helped Carter finish her project and so I’m done. Free to go wherever I choose.” It was close enough to the truth.  
  
Rodney narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, helped Carter finish her project?”  
  
“I figured it out. It’s done. Stable Lorentzian wormholes are a go with a conventional nuclear generator. Carter has to make the wormhole generator, of course, but -”  
  
“You finished it?” Rodney’s eyes went wide. “Really? Do you know what that means?”  
  
“It means I’m off probation and I can stay out here with you.”  
  
“John! This is - this is Fields Medal, Nobel Prize-level work!” Rodney threw his hands up. “Don’t you understand? You have to - you have to go back to Boston and do the write-up with Carter.”  
  
John stepped closer to him, tugged his dog tags out from under his collar. “I don’t need a Fields Medal or a Nobel Prize. I already have this.” He showed Rodney the engraving on his second tag.  
  
The formula for the date they met.  
  
Rodney stared at it. “What does this mean?”

John stepped even closer, so close they were almost touching, almost kissing. “This means, Rodney McKay, that I love you, and I believe you when you say you love me, and I’m sorry for pushing you away, and if you take me back, I swear I’ll never leave you.”  
  
Rodney gazed up at him. “Who are you and what have you done with John Sheppard?”  
  
“I’m John Sheppard, and I had an embarrassing cry in my therapist’s office so I could stand here and tell you I love you even though I’m completely terrified, because you’re the the best thing in my world, and I don’t deserve you, but every day I will try to.”  
  
Rodney reached up, curled his hand at the nape of John’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss, murmured against his lips, “I love you, and I don’t deserve you either, but I am going to keep you.”  
  
Their lips met, and finally, finally, John had stopped running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All lyrics, quoted or otherwise referenced, are from the Elliott Smith songs on the Good Will Hunting soundtrack.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Elliot Smith song Miss Misery.


End file.
